The Bishop Diaries
by saralinda
Summary: A historian stumbles upon the journal of Major John Bishop, and finds that some stories are better left untold.
1. Chapter 1

AN:** I do not own or profit from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. **This story takes place before the Triceraton invasion of Earth in the 2k3 series. The photographs are canon and can be viewed in the Season Four episode "Bishop's Gambit." The rest is an effort to fill in some of Agent Bishop's past…

* * *

"When are you going to finish school, Gabriel?" is the question people usually ask first. It's generally followed by "How long have you been doing this, anyway?"

When you're a PhD student in history, you have to answer these questions a lot. Trouble is, most of the time I don't have an answer to the first question and the second one gives me a headache.

I feel as though I have been in this library forever, just hanging in stasis. My head throbs most nights. My roommate, Merritt, blames my glasses. The frames are heavy and brown and square, not unlike me. She may be right—they do seem to be the cause of the nasty pinching sensation between my eyes. But without them, I'm blind as a bat. And I can't afford to go blind right now, because my work in the archives finally seems to be paying off.

They all laugh at me behind my back, I know. They think that research on the history of extraterrestrial encounters in America isn't "legitimate scholarship." Most of the senior professors avoid me, and the other grad students call me "alien boy" and worse. About the only two people who support me right now are Merritt and my thesis adviser, Dr. Sarah Rollins.

But this time I've hit it big—I haven't even told Merritt yet, and I tell her everything. I've found something major. And it's going to change history as we know it.

* * *

**To: Sarah Rollins  
From: Gabriel Villere  
Subject: I've found it!**

Dear Prof. Rollins,

Last week I mentioned that I had something to show you. To be brief, I was in the Arnold Archives looking for primary sources that referenced the Disturbance of 1815. I finally found what I was looking for: the journal of Captain John Bishop, who fought in the Louisiana militia under Major Villere. I need to talk to you soon! Let me know when we can meet.

Sincerely,  
Gabe

* * *

When I turned thirteen, my grandfather was hooked up to a lot of machines in a hospital in the city; he couldn't breathe very well and I think we all knew that he was going to die soon. One day I visited him, and he gave me a battered leather portfolio. Inside was a scrap of paper that mapped out my fate.

"This letter," he whispered to me, taking my hand, "is your birthright."

I didn't realize what a big deal it was to him at the time. It was just a letter.

I had always heard the stories of my ancestor, Major Gabriel Villere of the Louisiana Militia; he lead ground forces that helped defeat the British at New Orleans at the end of the War of 1812. My grandfather often reminded me of my heritage.

"You're descended from a great man," he always said. "A hero." I'd heard the "descended from a hero" line a million times, but I still loved it.

But the letter I received on my thirteenth birthday told a different story: the "you're descended from an alien hunter" story. It is dated January 15th, 1815, and isn't very long, but it describes what is known to a select few as "The Disturbance of 1815":

_"Captain John Bishop returned to us a week ago with a startling tale. I had thought him among the casualties, but we couldn't find his body on the battlefield. He had been gone for days and looked like a madman—his eyes were wild, his clothes torn, and his face caked with mud and blood._

_I took him into my tent and questioned him; I thought perhaps that he was suffering from a grave injury. My own physician helped him out of his coat and shirt. The stench…I cannot describe it, though his skin was clean. Faint lines like scars ran all over the length of his back and trunk, and they glowed like foxfire in the dim interior of my tent._

_He didn't speak for two days. On the third, he told me a remarkable story: he had been held captive in the sky. I thought he was still delirious—it was likely that he had been a victim of the British, captured and tortured, only able to find his way back to us after their defeat. But then he showed me a curious device; it fit into the palm of his hand and was made of a metal much lighter and more pliable than iron or even copper. A small red gem in the center of the device twinkled like the Dog Star._

_"Captain Bishop," I said, "This device…is it a secret weapon of the British? What does it do?" But he did not answer those questions._

_"The ones who took me were not from this Earth," he told me. "And they must be stopped!" The metal glowed faintly in his hand with a red light._

_He would not speak any more of his terrible captivity. He could not interpret the shining scars on his body. But I believe John Bishop, and I will aid him in his quest. As John says, we must defend against the threat. The future of the human race is at stake."_

The letter stops there, and so did my knowledge of Bishop—until now. My grandfather searched all his life for evidence of extra-terrestrials, dreaming of meeting real aliens.

I am a historian—my quest is for the truth.

* * *

The photograph is grainy. I show it to Merritt and she snorts.

"This is your big surprise? It's like the 1866 version of the Patterson-Gimlin Bigfoot hoax. Where did you get it, anyway?"

I point out to her the clear outline of the Unidentified Flying Object—it's obviously a saucer—and the men gathered around it. I've identified most of them, but I know nothing about their lives after 1870. They seem to have vanished off the face of the earth. No paper trails—heck, they don't even have tombstones. I know. I've looked through more overgrown cemeteries than I'd care to count.

I don't tell Merritt that I swiped the photo from the Willard K. Arnold Library at Louisiana State University on my last trip to Baton Rouge. Well, I didn't actually steal the photograph—I found it after I got back to New York when it fell out of John Bishop's journal, which I did take. In fact, there were a number of other photos and even some letters stuck into the journal's pages. I haven't had a chance to get a close look at it yet, but I can already tell that it's my ticket to academic stardom.

I feel a little bit bad, though, because Merritt hates it when I steal historical documents. She's a waitress with a strict sense of honor. She also ends up paying most of the bills around here, but she never complains about that. She knows grad students make less than the kid working the register at McDonald's.

Merritt studies the photo more closely. "Who's that guy in the front, Teddy Roosevelt?" She points to a tall man dressed in a post-Civil War-era U.S. Army uniform. He's gesturing toward the UFO, a mixture of hatred and triumph on his face.

I sigh. "You missed on the dates by about 30 years, Mer. I believe that is John Bishop's son, Isaac."

Isaac Bishop, Civil War hero. I'd found his grave marker at Arlington National Cemetery—the only one whose life had come to an end, at least as far as historical documents can show.

Merritt pushes a lock of her long brown hair out of her eyes. Her hair always seems to get in her eyes when she's thinking hard about something. "Gabe, does all this mean you're gonna finish this dissertation soon?"

The dreaded question.

"Better than that. It means I'm going to finish the dis and become an instant celebrity.

I already have the History Channel documentary planned out in my mind; Ken Burns could direct. But that dream needs to wait. I have to read Bishop's journal before I can write my masterpiece.

* * *

_24 December 1814_

_Dearest Helen,_

_I was overjoyed to hear in your last letter that Isaac is cured of the whooping cough. My dreams of him keep me warm on the frozen nights; I count the minutes until I can take my boy in my arms, until I can look again upon your lovely face!_

_General Jackson is bold; we have begun putting his plans in action. For two days now we have been throwing up earthworks, defenses against the redcoats; the work is hard and muddy, with much digging and moving heavy earth and rocks. I reckon not even their largest cannons will break our lines._

_I cannot write more now for fear that our enemies will find this letter; the battle is near at hand, but I do not want you to worry for me, love. The stockings you knitted me are warm and my powder is dry. Suffice to say that I am safe for the moment, and I am thinking of you and of our beloved son._

_If only I could hold you in my arms at this moment, my darling!_

_Happy Christmas,  
Yours Always,  
John_

* * *

_1 January 1815_

_Redcoats are defeated. Wounded in leg, side. My men fought valiantly, but the enemy was too many for our unit. They are scattered or dead; I must try to gather those who are left and report to Major Villere._

_I only pause to write this now because I have seen strange things on the battlefield: small, thin men with large dark eyes and grey skin. And yesterday I heard a sound like a great waterfall, right in the middle of the camp. I thought at first that it was a mortar, but the sound was so strange…like no mortar shell I've ever heard._

_These may be tricks of the British to frighten us, but they little realize how stouthearted are the men of Louisiana! We will regroup and fight to the death for our motherland—our proud Nation!_

* * *

**To: Gabriel Villere  
From: Sarah Rollins  
Subject: Re: I've found it!**

Gabe,

Bring me what you have, tomorrow, 10:30 am, at the Java Spot. I'll buy.

Best,  
Sarah

* * *

_25 January 1815_

_I am home._

_I cannot stop looking at my son's face. Even now, while he sleeps, I watch._

_I had almost forgotten what beauty was in the muddy floodplains of the Mississippi; when I killed, I kept my thoughts on Helen. Her face drove away the blood and filth, the shriek of mortar shells, the agonized screams of my enemies, the pain of my own wounds. Helen was my anchor._

_But when they took me, Helen's face did not come to save me. When they pinned me to their table and shined their lights into my eyes, when they opened me, I tried to bring her shining eyes, her lovely lips, her fair cheeks, into my mind. I begged her to save me. But I could not remember…._

_Now I am home, and I watch him. Isaac. He is beautiful._

* * *

_30 May 1815_

_Chilled. I still can't seem to shake the cold. I can feel it flooding through my veins some nights, like rage…or love. In my veins, I can feel it—yet it does not reach my heart._

_I cannot bear to touch Helen or Isaac; not when I can still feel their hands on me…their instruments cutting into my body…my organs…their black eyes roving over my naked skin._

_I tried to tell my wife about the grey men; I can feel her fear when I am near her. I know that she does not want to touch me, either. She thinks I have gone mad, but I would never hurt her. I could never hurt my Helen._

_The marks have faded, thank God, but I can still trace them on my flesh. At night I lie awake, running my fingers over invisible lines. The lines that they cut into me, ruthlessly. In my mind they are always there…I beg for mercy; from my lips, only screams issue. Unending screams. I cannot stop them._

* * *

_24 June 1815_

_They must be stopped._

_Villere believes me. He has offered aid in the fight against this new menace; his plantation, his slaves, and his weapons are all at my disposal. He will serve me well._

_Villere has been valuable in other ways. His contacts among the Cherokee scouts have reported rumors of grey-skinned "ghost men" roaming the great Western deserts. I have chosen a team of worthy and proven fighters to follow me there and engage the invaders. But difficult choices must be made._

_This war will break my wife. I look down upon her sleeping face, so fragile and beautiful, and I accept that she will be broken beyond recognition. Her body has already been weakened by illness, by the long winter, by war and loneliness. She will not survive the journey to the Western wastelands. The boy, too, may die._

_The cold—the cold is nigh unbearable. But my purpose now is clear._


	2. Chapter 2

Professor Rollins is dead.

It all started on Thursday. When I got to the local coffee shop I searched the crowded room for her familiar black-clad, silver-haired figure. I finally spotted her waving me over to her corner table.

She always did seem to believe my guesses and hunches, and now that I have something solid to base them on…well, she was almost as excited as I was. I could tell by the way she was sitting—hunched forward, cradling an enormous mug of black coffee, tapping one foot impatiently. A large, flat package rested under her chair.

"What've you got there?" I asked as I made my way over to her.

"This is for you, for later. Let's see what you've found."

I could see that the photos intrigued her, but she went to the journal first. I forced myself to drink my cappuccino and let her read without interruption, thankful that she hadn't asked me how I had obtained the documents.

At last she looked up. I wasn't expecting her to look worried.

"Gabriel," she said slowly. "Have you checked the dates in this? The continuity doesn't make sense. It starts in January of 1815 and goes right up through the 1950s—1955, to be exact."

I hadn't expected this response, and I was kicking myself for not at least glancing through the rest of Bishop's journal to prepare for our meeting. Rookie mistake.

I forced a smile onto my face. "That's even more exciting, then, right? A family history! His descendants must have continued keeping the journal. I might actually be able to track down surviving members of John Bishop's family and see if any oral histories of the Disturbance have survived the last 190 years."

"Gabe," her voice tightened, "the entire thing is in Bishop's handwriting."

I pride myself on rarely appearing confused in public, on maintaining mental coolness and control no matter what curveballs life throws at me.

"Uh…what?" I grabbed the journal from her, almost covering it in cappuccino. I flipped as quickly as I could through the volume, trying not to injure the brittle pages. Each was filled with the same precise, slanted cursive. Over and over, the leaves told the same story. A familiar feeling of desperation began boiling in the pit of my stomach.

"Maybe the first part is real, and someone just copied the handwriting after Bishop died?"

"Gabriel, I've studied primary source documents for the past 25 years. This is the same writing. We might assume that the entire document is fake."

"It was buried in the archive, Sarah. Why would someone take the trouble to fake the journal and then leave it where no one would ever find it?" I was talking too fast, but I had to hold onto the truth I had found. Bishop was _in_ those pages—it couldn't be a forgery.

"Slow down, Gabriel, and let me finish. We might also assume that it's…real." She picked up the photograph of the soldiers standing in front of the UFO. "The men in this photograph—have you identified them?"

"That's Isaac Bishop in the front. The rest…"

"Are you certain that is Isaac?"

I stopped my headlong drive to spill as much information as possible. "Well, the photo was taken around 1866, and I assumed that—"

My adviser held up her hand. "Maybe now is a good time for me to show you what I've brought." She slid the package from under her chair and handed it to me. It was heavier than I'd expected.

"I discovered this in an antiques shop near my ex-husband's apartment. The owner didn't seem to know too much about it. She told me it had come from her boyfriend's mother's attic, and they'd been trying to clean the place out for years—in short, they had no idea what they were selling."

I began to fumble with the brown wrapping, and a framed portrait slipped easily from the paper shell and landed in my lap. An eagle-faced man, proud, with dark hair curling over his ears, stared out of the painting.

"Isaac Bishop!"

"Gabriel, all evidence points to the fact that this painting was done before 1827. I am fairly certain it is by Peale; he was dead before Isaac was thirteen years old. The man in this portrait is at least thirty years old."

I didn't see at first what Professor Rollins was getting at. Impatient, she shoved her heavy-framed glasses back onto her head and jabbed a blood-red nail toward the picture. "_John. _John Bishop, Gabriel—painted around 1815 or 1816."

If I had been a cartoon character, a big puffy lightbulb would've appeared over my head at that moment.

"The person in this portrait is identical to the man standing in front of the UFO in your photograph, which was taken almost fifty years later. Those years were kind to him, don't you think?" Her eyes glittered as she held the photo in front of my face.

I tried to get my mind around that one. John Bishop had unnatural long life. John Bishop…an immortal?

Professor Rollins searched through her purse and pulled out a scrap of paper with an address and phone number, which she handed to me. "I told the shop owner I was interested in finding out more about her friend's 'collection.' The place is called 2nd Time Around, in case you're interested in checking it out." She stood. "I'm going to make some phone calls for you. I've got connections in some of the major government archives; they may be able to fill in more gaps on this John Bishop character."

She left me with cappuccino spattered down my front, clutching an almost-200-year-old painting, with more questions than answers. I'll never forget her parting words.

"We've uncovered more than history here, Gabriel—someone out there knows what's going on. Keep reading!

Sarah was sitting quietly at her desk when I visited her office on Friday morning. Nothing seemed out of place; the shelves of dusty first editions and gleaming new textbooks, the filing cabinets filled with student essays and course information, even her oversized "The Far Side" coffee cup were all undisturbed.

I had so much to tell her about what I had read since we met: that John had taken his family to the Western territories—that he had later killed his wife, Helen, in a fit of paranoid delusion. That he had accused her of being "one of them" before slitting her throat. That Isaac had seen the whole episode.

"Sarah," I began, but found myself trailing off. Something wasn't right. She was staring at me, not even blinking. "Sarah?"

A fly buzzed lazily into the room and landed on her eyelid, before crawling across her eye and flying away. She didn't budge. I rushed forward and found myself slipping in a sticky pool of blood; it was difficult to see because of her dark clothing, but her arms and sides were soaked in it. Two long, deep gashes crossed each wrist.

I reached over and closed her eyes. Then I puked all over myself, though I managed to get some of it in a nearby wastepaper basket.

Her death was later classified as "suicide," but I know that isn't what really happened. My adviser would never have done that to herself.

When I got home from giving my statement at the police station, I thought over what I hadn't told them. I wasn't sure how, but Sarah had made an enemy. The blinking light on my answering machine confirmed it with even more finality than her dead body.

I tossed my keys on the counter and pressed "play."

"_You will cease your investigations into the matter of John Bishop immediately, or you will suffer the same fate."_

It seems I had made an enemy as well.


	3. Chapter 3

"Is he still watching me?"

I'm being followed. It was hard enough to get my work done before the murder, and now—well, I barely stay still long enough to gulp a cup of coffee before moving on again. In the week since Professor Rollins was killed, I've kept to busy places, but the Starbucks we've chosen for our meeting this morning isn't as crowded as I would like.

Merritt is wearing a pair of those enormous Paris Hilton sunglasses. They look ridiculous, but at least she can keep an eye on the guy who's watching me without making it too obvious. She is holding a largish duffle bag stuffed with clean clothes, my toothbrush, and a few other odds and ends I asked her to bring. She peers over my shoulder at the tall, dark-suited man sitting at the bus stop across the street.

"Yeah, I think he's still onto you. At least, he hasn't moved—he's pretending to read _The New York Times_." Her voice is light but a little shaky.

I can understand why; at first glance, the man following me looks kind of like a buttoned-down stockbroker or an especially well-dressed undertaker—sharp suit, polished shoes, straight black tie. It's his dark glasses that start you wondering what deathsquad he might be working for.

I reach under the table and take the duffle bag with a large measure of relief. I don't happen to care at the moment that it has a giant Hello Kitty emblazoned on the front, I just want to get my hands on the clean clothes inside. Note to self: when going on the run from mysterious killers, try to at least bring a change of underwear along with the 190-year-old portrait and alien-hunter journal.

Merritt wrinkles her nose. "I guess I'll sleep a little better tonight, knowing I've made the city safe from your poor hygiene." Then her shoulders slump and she leans forward to toy with the straw in her overpriced iced tea. "But where are you going to _go_, Gabriel?" She's already asked this question about a dozen times.

I am relieved she hasn't asked where I've been. The first horrible night I slept under a bridge, the second in a shelter; the third night I walked until dawn and then dozed on the subway all day. No matter where I spend my nights, he always manages to find me.

Instead of answering Merritt, I take advantage of the screen provided by a passing crowd of tourists to give her the portrait. Surprised, she hides it under the folds of her long skirt. "What's this for?" she hisses.

"Sell it; buy yourself a nice place somewhere far from this city. See if the owner of 2nd Time Around will recommend an auction house."

Merritt pulls her giant sunglasses off her face, revealing terrified brown eyes. "Gabriel—don't do this. You've got to get help. Go to the police!"

"We both know that the police will either laugh me off or lock me up. I'm going to Baton Rouge, Merritt. I'm putting this diary back in the archive where I found it. I'm through."

My roommate and best friend of five years absorbs that, thumping her stubby pink fingernails on the tabletop. Finally she puts her sunglasses back on and flashes her lopsided, killer smile. "At least you'll have something interesting to read on the plane. And, you know, bartenders can make a lot of money in this city. Especially smart, well-read, intellectual bartenders. I happen to know we're going to need to fill a position down at the restaurant really soon—if you want it. When you come back."

I shake my head, knowing I am too weighted-down with secrets to come back to New York anytime soon. Even so, I can't help smiling back as I start to rise. There's a kind of thrill in being the hunted; I'm not exactly enjoying it, but the adrenaline rush isn't unpleasant. It's time to run again.

"I'm going now, and then you'll be safe. He'll follow me. You'll be fi—" I break off as she dives across the table and hugs me goodbye.

I can swear that, across the street, the dark-suited man is laughing at me.

* * *

_20 September 1850_

_Villere has been dead for two days; my men have kept the remains fresh by packing them in ice, but the chance of bringing him back fades with each passing hour. In spite of this, I keep trying. The accursed grey men have given me hope, in this respect—I have witnessed them using a device that can restore life to the dead, though I do not yet fully understand how it works. The alien technology we have confiscated still functions, though it has been difficult to keep the scum alive for use as test subjects._

_Yesterday my new assistant, Simmons, managed to transfer the vital essence of a dog into the body of one of the invaders. The result was promising but not definitive. Our team has dissected the remains of both creatures to observe and document the traumatic effects of the procedure. It must be perfected before we attempt to bring Villere back._

* * *

_8 December 1855_

_I am no longer performing the dissections; my hands shake all the time now. But I watch and supervise, directing my men in the proper methods. After each alien autopsy I meditate by Villere's grave; it gives me peace to be near my old friend, who always reminded me how vital our mission is to the nation and the world._

_Tonight's experiment was a success. Harrison procured Test Subject A—a black male on the run from slavers—for our initial trial. I felt a pang of sympathy for the man at first; no doubt Harrison had promised him an escape route to the north in order to lure him back to our laboratory. I quickly administered a sedative; it would not do for his screams to carry through the streets of our fair capitol._

_Isaac brought in a dying street-woman to serve as Subject B, and we proceeded with the transference. When it was finished, the man lay still, his mouth slack; but the woman—I could see a new awareness in her face. Our runaway slave gazed at me from her eyes. He did not speak and did not live for very long afterwards, but I counted it a victory._

* * *

_29 March 1861_

_Isaac has accepted a commission as sergeant in the Union Army. I argued with him at length about participating in this foolish war—he knows that there are far more deadly enemies about—but he insisted that it was his duty to the Union to go to battle. He will do so in company with the 2nd Dragoons._

_I am beginning to understand that my son has other reasons for choosing this path. One night I awoke to find him hovering over my bed with a strange glow cast over his body. That eerie light came from my own flesh, shining out from the scars I received long ago at the hands of my captors. I can still see the expression of revulsion on his face as the light from my decaying flesh slid across his healthy skin._

_Since then the pain has become daily burden, mushrooming through my bones and sinews and spilling out through my whole being. When it is especially bad I can see their lights again. Sometimes I see Helen. Isaac tries to help me, to perform the duties of a son to his ailing, broken, elderly father, but to no purpose—my body's destruction was assured long ago._

_And I find myself watching my son, as I haven't in years. Hungrily. He is a man in the prime of life—strong limbs, whole flesh, keen mind. If only he would put this strength to use for our higher cause, for the benefit of all mankind, instead of putting down this petty insurrection!_

* * *

_13 August 1865_

_I have been ailing. I had despaired of seeing Isaac again, but he arrived home from the front today._

_"Father," he said, gripping my shoulders. "Father."_

_His left leg was shattered, but it will heal._

* * *

_29 September 1865_

_When Isaac was a child, I brought him to the top of a mountain near our cabin in the Western territories. Helen resisted—she did not approve of one so young traveling such dangerous territory in the darkness of night. She did not understand that John Bishop's son had a great destiny, and that he must learn from an early age the way of strength, vision, and unquestioning faith in his father._

_The path was narrow and rocky; when we reached the summit, I could see that he was tired but proud. I showed him the desert below, the scrub pines and sage that surrounded us, and the billions of stars that sprinkled the heavens above. From far off we heard the keening howl of a coyote, and he pressed against my side._

_"Those lights are beautiful, are they not?"_

_"Yes, father," Isaac responded dutifully. He stood as straight has he could, but I could see that his sturdy legs were trembling with exhaustion._

_"They are also our enemies, Isaac. They are glorious, but they must always be feared and watched."_

_We built no fire, but kept a lookout on the stars until sunrise. I carried him home then, sound asleep in my arms. Helen took him from me. She did not speak to me again._

_Vigilance is the greatest virtue. Love, mercy, courage, justice—all are subordinate to vigilance. These are the lessons I have taught my son from the beginning. And he was always so willing to sacrifice—God, at times I think about what Isaac has sacrificed and my flesh crawls. These are moments of weakness, and I allow them now and then because I love my son._

_But now Isaac's vision is no longer trained upon the heavens; it has been corrupted by the filth and mud of the battlefield. I can feel him watching me more closely than ever before. His strength is returning and he has begun to walk without aid. It may be time to redeem him from this corruption—to set his feet back upon the path of destiny and virtue._

* * *

_30 November 1865_

_I am a righteous man._

_I do not write now to defend my actions, but to honor my son; his sacrifice has made the world safe again—for a time. It is my hope that his death will ensure the security of mankind for many centuries to come._

_I look down upon hands that are scarred, strong, and sure. They have seen battle but are surprisingly elegant in spite of this. I draw the cavalry sword and enjoy the sheen of the blade, bright and sharp—an emblem of virtue. Eyes blessed with keen sight, heart beating with strength and surety, hands that do not tremble: the corruption of old age forever held at bay._

_I prod at the small, blinking device sewn into my chest; much of my first life was spent discovering its secret and immortalizing powers. The sutures are still tender—the clumsy stitchwork of old, trembling hands that are ready for the grave. There is a momentary pang of sorrow for that old body, but I understand it was just a temporary vessel. John Bishop cannot be buried. His eyes must be ever affixed to the heavens. It was necessary to find a new home for his spirit._

_I finally pound the last nail into the coffin, readying instructions for the burial of Isaac Bishop at the new cemetery at Arlington. Lovingly, I stroke my new, powerful arms. "Your father will take care of you always, Isaac."_

_Always._


	4. Epilogue

I open my eyes, but the view hasn't changed. I feel as though I have been here forever. The fluid that surrounds me is green and translucent, and I can see through my glass prison into the blurry shadows beyond. But that is all I see. He took my glasses away. He said I wouldn't need them anymore—told me he could perfect my sight.

John Bishop. Strangely enough, I wish he were here now. I'm lonely, although I know I'm not alone. Through the blur and darkness I perceive other glass cylinders like mine, with vague shapes floating inside. I'm trying not to think about them too much. Instead, I concentrate and bring Merritt's face into my mind. She sparkles at the top of my thoughts for a moment before dropping back beneath the darkening surface. I don't know why it's getting so hard to hang onto her image.

I was in the archive back in Baton Rouge when he found me. His voice sounded flat and dull in the closet-like space between the stacks. The effect was much like being doused with ice water.

"Gabriel, at last. You've been running for a long time."

I didn't try to escape—there was nowhere to go—just placed the journal in his outstretched hand and waited for…what? A fight to the death? I'm a pudgy guy with eyestrain, asthma, and a bad back. He stands about half a foot taller than me, a pillar of lean muscle and killer instincts wrapped up in a Brooks Brothers suit. And let's not forget the sunglasses—he kept those on, even in the dim light of the archive. I'm sort of glad he did; I wasn't eager to look into those eyes. I knew too much about what they'd seen over the years.

My best guess was that he'd kill me quietly and leave me there on the floor between the stacks. Part of me figured that an ironic death was better than a staged suicide or poisoning or grisly axe murder. In reality, I had come to terms with my impending end somewhere in the air over North Carolina. I wasn't prepared to live.

"You're descended from a great man," he said. "A hero."

"I know." Strangely, hearing my grandfather's story from Bishop's lips comforted me and I felt some of the fear drop away. Maybe a bit of Major Villere's courage _had_ found a genetic resting place in his otherwise geeky descendent.

"I can see him in you, although there are obvious…differences. We all thought his line had died out, that there'd be no chance of bringing him back." Bishop paused here, and I closed my eyes, waiting for the deathblow.

"Gabriel, I'd like to make you an offer, if you'd care to listen."

Laughter exploded from my lips in short, choking bursts. My whole body shook, scattering droplets of sweat in every direction. Bishop drew a hand across his cheek, wiping some of the salty fluid away, but otherwise waited patiently until I calmed down.

"I'm listening," I finally managed, waiting for the next wave of hysteria to hit.

"Major Villere died long before we had mastered the invaders' Life Technology and harnessed it for our own purposes. I did everything I could at the time to keep him alive, but we simply didn't have the knowledge or experience. I was forced to bury my friend."

I shrunk against the shelf behind me as he reached over and wiped the river of sweat from my cheek, absently rubbing the fluid between his fingers.

"With recent advances in the science of cloning, I saw that there was a chance to fulfill the promise of immortality that I made to my friend on his deathbed. His son died without producing any children. But Villere's _other_ family—his slave offspring—well, we weren't in a position to look for them until this year. You are the last surviving male. You can provide the DNA necessary for us to bring your ancestor back from the dead."

I processed that for a minute. John Bishop wasn't trying to silence my research; I had value to him as a source of genetic material.

"When?" I demanded, realization dawning. "When did you find me?"

He ignored my question. "When I learned you were traveling here to use the archive, I decided to leave you a little gift." He tucked the journal into his breast pocket.

"You planted your journal and the photographs for me?"

"You needed to know how vital it is that you cooperate with our cause. You needed more perspective on your nation's history. And you needed to know that you can rise above this"—gesturing at the stacks of dusty books—"and fulfill your destiny."

As I exhale, large bubbles rise lazily through the slime around my face. I like it; it makes me feel weightless and cool. The blurry darkness is peaceful, until Merritt sparkles up again—then I want to yell that I didn't choose this, would never have renounced my life. I want to tell her that, but then she sinks away. It's peaceful.

* * *

**AN: **If you've stuck with me this far, I appreciate it! Thanks very much for reading, I hope it was enjoyable.


End file.
